“There is no feckin’ way,” she continues, advancing a step, knife lifted between us, “that you didn’t know. No way you didn’t lead them there.”
My control snaps.
“I was seventeen!” I roar, the sound tearing out of my chest. “I was in love with you and stupid enough to think that would keep us safe!”
She screams right back, tears spilling now, face twisted with years of grief and fury. “Then why were your men there, Finn?! Why were they wearing your colours?!”
“They weren’t mine!” I shout. “They were wearing what they wanted you to see!”
Her breath stutters. She shakes her head hard, curls flying loose from pins. “No. No. Don’t you do that. Don’t you rewrite it.”
“I bled for you,” I snarl, stepping closer, not caring about the blade. “You put the knife in me. You felt it slide between my ribs.”
Her voice breaks completely.
“I never stopped loving you,” she sobs. “That’s the worst part.”
The knife lowers an inch.
“I wanted to die,” she whispers, wrecked. “Do you know that? Every day after that chapel, I woke up hating myself because I thought I was still in love with my brother’s murderer.”
My chest feels like it’s caving in.
“I planned it,” she goes on, words tumbling now, desperate and brutal. “I picked the bridge. I counted the steps. I thought—if I jump far enough, hard enough, it’ll shut my head up.”
She lets out a broken laugh. “Then you took me.”
I swallow hard.
“And part of me hoped,” she says, lifting her eyes to mine, ruined and honest, “that you’d finally do it. That you’d finish the job. That you’d end me, because I couldn’t live loving you anymore.”
She doesn’t lower the knife. She laughs again, sharp and cracked, and this time there’s no hysteria in it—only understanding.
“And the worst part?” she says. “You knew.”
The words hit harder than the blade ever did.
“I saw your face,” she continues, stepping closer, lace whispering over the floor. “At the table. During the talks. Sitting there with your father like it was just another deal. Another shipment. Another girl traded for peace.”
Her grip tightens around the hilt. “My da didn’t sell me to the devil,” she snarls. “He sold me to you.”
Silence roars between us.
“You stood there and let him,” she says. “Let him sign me away. Let him offer me up like blood money and call it strategy.” Her eyes shine now—not with tears, but fury so pure it terrifies me. “I was seventeen when I loved you,” she says. “I was stupid enough to think that meant something.”
She presses the knife to my chest—not cutting, just enough pressure to make the point.
“And now look at me. Wearing your name. Your ring. Your mark on my throat.” Her voice drops. “Tell me, Finn—was this always the plan? Or did you just decide I’d look better broken?”
I step forward despite the blade. “You ran,” I say hoarsely.
She laughs in my face. “I ran because every man I trusted put a price on my life.” Her voice cracks then—just once. “I wantedrevenge,” she admits. “On him. On you. On all of them.” Her eyes lock onto mine, burning. “And I still do.”
The knife lowers—slowly—but it doesn’t disappear.
“So don’t lie to me now,” she whispers. “Don’t you dare try to rewrite that night.” Her chin lifts in challenge. “Because if you’re going to tell me you didn’t betray me,” she says, deadly calm, “you’d better be ready to bleed for the truth.”
“I knew about the marriage.”
